


Because This Is

by thelostrocketeer



Series: Sherlock Drabbles [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A bit shit, Fluff, M/M, Most of my drabbles are fluff anyway, Written a while back., idek anymore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-22
Updated: 2012-08-22
Packaged: 2017-11-12 15:32:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/492794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelostrocketeer/pseuds/thelostrocketeer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because this is John, you see?</p><p>Or: In which the author waxes lyrical about John Watson, and how Sherlock falls in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Because This Is

Sherlock Holmes can count the number of people who have attempted to romance him on one hand.

 

There was Clarissa von Bruglai, who played the flute. They met at a recital when they were 17. She was quite pretty, but had a repulsively blatant disregard for his need of thinking space. She also had an odd delusion that they would “make beautiful music together”. She lasted about half a week, when she discovered he had nicked her flute to run some tests on the effect of 0.03 grams of (homemade) C4 in the barrel. (Split like a banana down the seams of the tone holes.)

There was Theresa Thompson the Cougar, when he was 20. She was 43. She liked his aloofness, his lack of social sensibilities, but misinterpreted it as repressed lust. She persisted until she tried to assault him into bed when showed up at his old college flat in nothing but a pair of nipple tassels. (Wouldn’t leave until Sherlock told her he was gay.)

There was Peter Phillips, who spent far too much money on him. They met at a terribly dull, dreary event Mycroft forced him to attend. He was unforgivably dull and lasted a whole month and about three thousand pounds before giving up. The MacBook Pro he gave him lasted a year before he dumped it in the Thames to investigate the effect of the murky waters on the RAM slots. (Nothing much, because the water couldn’t reach that far. Wasted.)

There was Molly Hooper, timid, shy, but extremely determined, despite his oft and less than subtle attempts to ward her off. She lasted the longest, nearly two years until she finally got the message that he was less than interested in anything remotely resembling a romantic relationship.

There was The Woman, who almost got him, who dug into his back with her perfectly manicured nails, beat him with her riding crop, and harassed him with silly texts. ( _I like your silly hat. Let’s have dinner._ ) The Dominatrix. In the end, he helped her flee decapitation, and never heard from her again, but it was okay.

 

Because now there is John.

John Hamish Watson.

 

John, who stayed away from the topic of sexuality after raising it but once, who only beds women, who has a small but varied folder of heterosexual _materials_ on his laptop, who checks out women on the street without properly _seeing_ what Sherlock sees, who subconsciously sends him mixed messages of repressed lust.

John, who slowly licks his lips, whose brief touches linger a touch too long, whose carotid artery jumps erratically when his personal space is rudely but purposefully invaded, whose eyes grow wide and watch Sherlock with poorly concealed want when he strolls around the flat in nothing but his favourite white sheet.

John, who is nothing like the kind of man or woman Sherlock would look for, if he did look for men or women. He’s too short, too-big ears, too-hooked a nose, too soft. He gets too attached, too polite, is always too nice. Too human. Too lovely, too likeable, too wonderful.

And Sherlock should be annoyed, displeased, perhaps even disgusted in his needless, unwanted, unfamiliar _feelings_ , but he finds himself inexplicably, wonderfully, suddenly drawn to him.

 

Because this is John.

 

John, who is his flatmate, his colleague, his companion, his friend. His best friend.

And John is warmth and comfort and blankets and hot water bottles when Sherlock is sick; he is coconuts and sand and milk and hot, hot tea.

John is jumpers and spider web scars and smiles and sandy blonde hair; big clear blue eyes that glow. John is sensible, illogical- crisp warm croissants. Smooth oregano flavoured butter.

John is stupidly-simple-to-figure-out magic tricks and slow soft Brahms; silly pop songs that have no meaning and old record players which pop and crackle.

John is John. John is good. John is lovely.

So Sherlock finds himself sharing secret smiles with the man who saved his life.

The man with the psychosomatic limp and tremors in his hands.

The crack shot with morals compass of the angels.

The one who smells of coconut jam and _home._ (Sometimes quite literally; not all experiments are a success.)

He finds himself trying.

He finds himself fixing the radiator at two in the morning, in the dead of winter making his fingers turn blue, because John cannot stand the cold like he can. He finds himself making space in the fridge for the rations John needlessly buys because they can eat out for free almost every night if they so wished. He finds himself not playing the violin at the crack of dawn because John is normal (So beautifully normal.) and normal people _apparently_ need sleep.

He carefully climbs into John’s bed when he’s out at work, (on dates, at the dentist, doesn’t matter where) and inhales and lies there face down, unmoving until he hears John come home. Breathing, being; it’s worship, almost.

He practices making tea to match the way John’s tea tastes.

He covers John with blankets on nights when he falls asleep in his chair; because there is a case and Sherlock cannot possibly sleep and insists John stay with him. He plays Brahms an obscene amount of times because John says it’s his favourite. He watches rubbish telly, sitting next to John, trying not to hog too much of the couch, holding out a bowl of buttered popcorn (Because John dislikes the caramel kind. He’s never told him but Sherlock deduced it one night when John came home from a date.)- like it’s a sacred offering to the deity that he has turned John into.

He puts the milk back into the fridge, because John has a problem with drinking room temperature milk. (Goodness knows why.)

He kisses John’s sleeping face reverently in his mind, because John is a light sleeper, one of his remnant traits from the war.

And the tables are turned, and Sherlock is the one who falls-

 

Because this is _John_.

 

And John is nothing like anyone else, never has been, never will be. 

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted at http://andshewritesfanfiction.tumblr.com


End file.
